


watch that cough

by grab_n_growl



Series: coughing fits [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, CHARACTER DEATH SPOILERS, Canon Divergence, Confessions, Emotional Manipulation, Established Feelings, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Polyamorous Characters, Spoilers, Supportive Relationships, TB Arthur, illness recovery, ptsd themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 09:26:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grab_n_growl/pseuds/grab_n_growl
Summary: Some part of him knew, always had. Always knew that they were never going to triumphant. They were never going to be the heroes in the fairytale books they stole for Jack. The wily, clever characters wound in the adventure novels that Hosea had loved to read- had read to him and John, when they were both wild and angry and footloose and needed something else to focus on other than smoke and blood. The far-away dreamers of Dutch's philosophy books that he poured over like he was anything more, something more, than a low-downcriminaljust like the rest of them.Takes one to know one, wasn't that the saying?Yeah. It was.





	watch that cough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> This is a finished request for nezstorm! I'm going to combine this with another request into a bit of a mini-series revolving around these boys, who I love very much and wish to deliver sweetness and good feelings to. I hope you enjoy!

It burns, _burns,_ like every breath soaks boiling water into his lungs- but dry, dry, until his flesh feels like sandpapered weather and bone-dry dust. Excruciatingly painful, in a way that is different from the aching twist of a knife in the gut, the bursting colors of punches, the sting of a gunshot fast as the strike of spurs against a racehorse's bleeding flanks. The lack of _air, always,_ is perhaps a torture worse than any of that, than any of those could ever be. This was your own body _fighting against you,_ attempting to claw through the throat, shatter the frail scaffolding of the ribs pressed tight against skin pulled taut and dull... _wasting._ Wasting away in your own skin. That hadn't been how he'd imagined his end- but when it came to mind, he mused it was so _very fitting_ considering all of his sins, the trails of destruction his life had left behind, scours of burns through the earth as his legacy.  
  
He had tried to do better, he really did.  
  
And, perhaps, in the end, he was far better off than the people who had pointed their guns at him-  
  
_Family._  


 

_i will never be able to_  
_go home._

 

People who he had been with for years, people who had been his _everything,_ who always would be, turning on him because of the simple, stupid, beautiful trap that was their blind loyalty to the man cloaked in raven feathers to hide the fact his mind was _long gone._ Pretty darkness, on the outside appearing _familiar,_ and maybe that was why they had all turned eyes with a deep-seated _fury_ and _distrust_ they had once sent toward his enemies.

Ruminating on it now, Arthur sure knew one thing for sure-

 

_i miss it-_

 

He wasn't _fucking sorry._

Wasn't sorry for dragging his walking-dead body through mud and leaves, fingers _aching_ where they'd been pressed against Agent Milton's cold-barreled gun against his forehead, keen to taste his essence. Instead, the suited man had fell to the floor where he _belonged-_ and Arthur tasted his own blood enough for the both of them. How _lucky._ Wasn't sorry to watch the bastard's body rot before his very eyes, in the span of only a single heartbeat sickly and painful in his diseased chest, to nothing but skin and bones in his mind. Just like him, _just like him._ The corpse looked so much like his wasted body that he entertained, morbid and self-deprecating, that if he were to lie down now he'd be dead in less than an hour-

But he couldn't. Not when he had to get Abigail and Sadie out, _away._ He may have been a ghost, but they were _not-_

Please, _please, just let me have this, alive just long enough-_

_It's all I ask-_

 

_it's by staying together...  that we live._

 

Oh yeah? You're sure? You were there, my _dear brother._ Back at camp you were, when Sean's skull blew to smithereens- when I close my eyes, sometimes I see that twinkling, hovering moment when those _naive, excited eyes had looked at me because_ _I was supposed to know what I was doing_. You were there when Hosea, sweet Hosea, my _father,_ your _father,_ was struck down in the garbage-strewn cobblestone street like nothing but a mangey dog. Oh, how you'd _howled then!_

 

_he isn't moving!_

 

No. He wasn't. And nor was Lenny, poor kid- _fuck,_ I thought he'd be the one to make it- but no. And it was you! You! Who'd climbed up on the apartment with me, voice _trembling_ to tell me we'd _lost control._ As if it hadn't been _fucking obvious._  You! Who staggered when you passed us, and I saw it- the  _horror,_ the _pain,_ when our eyes met-

 

_am i glad to see you-_

 

You sounded so tired. When your _savior_ hoisted you up on black wings, you'd looked at me and said those words, bogged down by gunsmoke and the sticky, slick heat of the cesspool of festering that was Guarma. I couldn't tell if the beat in my heart had been from the darkness leaking in again, or just because of _you._ Still hurt. Maybe it's because he carried you, instead of me. Maybe it's because I was too busy choking on my own flesh and squinting through sugar-powder and blood spray, numb and buzzing, that my failing body didn't have enough strength to hold you. Maybe when you fell limp and unconscious, whatever had leeched into the man who had been my _father figure_ seeped into your defenseless mind, infected it just like the thick agony in my chest like every breath was inhaling sea-water- maybe it was because we were all _sick, sick, sick. _Infected, we all were, with the lofty goals and dreams struggling to fit in the cracks of a world that _didn't want us no more._  


 

_where's_  
_your_  
_trust?_

 

Six feet under, like he had been about to be.

Like Molly. Stomach torn through by the woman who had held this camp together far, _damn far,_ better than Dutch or Hosea or Arthur had ever managed to come close to- Karen, _screaming-_

 

_you're a murderer!_

 

_I don't understand-_

No.

He did. Arthur did.

Because he had been fooled for over 20 years that the _regal outlaws, the Robin-Hoods, the bad men of morals _could ever, _ever_  survive. Had said it himself, when that poor lass had come wandering to him, delicate, soft hands wearing the skin thin to shreds- not meant to work. Not meant for this life, and yet, she, like everyone else, had been caught up in Dutch's web of siren-calls and _promising talk._ Talk, _talk, always talk-_

 

_a broken mirror means seven years bad luck, Arthur-_

_we won't see seven years out._

 

Some part of him knew, always had. Always knew that they were never going to triumphant. They were never going to be the heroes in the fairytale books they stole for Jack. The wily, clever characters wound in the adventure novels that Hosea had loved to read- had read to him and John, when they were both wild and angry and footloose and needed something else to focus on other than smoke and blood. The far-away dreamers of Dutch's philosophy books that he poured over like he was anything more, _something more,_ than a low-down _criminal_ just like the rest of them.

 _Takes one to know one,_ wasn't that the saying?

Yeah. It was.

 

_i'm sticking to my family-_

_these people_ _aint your family._

 

Should've tried harder, _should've done more, should've seen it._ Should've been the one to know, to sense it from a mile away, that the man Dutch had been was long, long gone even before they'd sidled up to this _mess._ And that they were all too far gone to back out now. _Arthur_ was too far gone to get out, knew his chances had been set aflutter years ago. So he had to _content_ with a broken, bruised, dying body, living on borrowed _time-_

Like they all were.

Like Jenny. Mac. Davey. Sean. Kieran. Hosea. Lenny. Molly-

Like Ms. Grimshaw- you were there! You were there, my friend! Stumbling up from the bowels of the creek, ringing the alarm, the warning bell, over and _over and over again, the bell-_

 

_pinkertons coming, fast-_

 

And what did you do? You _watched._ You _watched_ as that yellow-bellied _snake_ put a bullet in her stomach. You  _listened_ to her screams, and you did _nothing._ Did nothing but watch as John- arm a bruised, mangled mess, mind you- and me were turned on by _rabid dogs,_ dogs that _you sided with._ Stayed behind Dutch like a loyal toy. Exactly like how he groomed you to be. Exactly like how he tried to groom _us- and it worked!_ For 20 years, it _worked-_

Perhaps it had been his fault, Arthur's fault.

Every day, it sure felt like it had been.

 

_we are not criminals, we are outlaws._

_... there's a difference?_

 

Didn't seem like it, in spite of all the _talk._ Because that's all it was- just talk. And yet, somehow, they had all managed to fall prey to it. Fall victim to the dreams, far too lofty for them, far too _beautiful_ for the likes of them. Why had they ever thought they could be something other than what they were? Imagine that they could _truly_ escape the life they'd lived of robbery and gunsmoke and blood. And Arthur just felt lost, in limbo,  _constantly._ Even in his home of 20 years, he had never felt it truly where he needed to be- oh, surely, he could spit it all he wanted. But when he retired to his pining journals, all his fingers ever clasped, all his pencil ever scratched, were regrets and pain and loneliness surrounded by faces-

 

_you're breaking his heart, you know that, right?_

 

Dutch didn't _have_ a heart to break. Not from what he'd seen.

None of them really did. Not men like Arthur- at least, that's what he thought.

Found himself sorely mistaken every time his head swam with Mary's face, torn and tattered and so, so distant and yet so realistic on paper, every one of her details mapped perfectly in the leatherbound- memorialized. It just made it hurt more. Why did he endeavor to hurt himself so much? In late-night saloons, he mused it was because he believed that he deserved it. Found he still had some kind of a heart when the rest of it broke when a familiar ring came to him in a letter. Found he still had something in his chest when he saw the gang falling apart. When he saw Sean fall, Hosea collapse, Lenny drop- saw friends, _real family,_ disappear like nothing in front of his eyes. Felt cracks splinter up the arteries in his heart when he closed his eyes and saw dark, dark eyes and worn, calloused fingers soulfully plucking at the strings of a guitar-

 

_dutch loves us._

 

Oh, you poor, goddamn _fool-_

Both of us.

Do you remember the last thing you said to me?

I do.

I remember-

 

" Arthur. "

 

Everything flooded back to him in a surge of light, awareness flooding into his cranium like pouring liquid firework into his brain, rattling the bone and flesh. He'd broken open so many skulls and every time, the brain looked the same- so he could imagine it so clearly, the artist that he was- his own pink-red viscera burning like old embers, blackened and red-orange singed. Just like his lungs... the _illness-_

 

" _Arthur._ "

 

Stronger, this time, and the man finds himself without inclination to decline- he didn't wish to stay in his thoughts. Not ones like this, not today. Sunlight is warm, happy and kind, dappling his skin he can see when broad hands shuffle his hat back- a new one, mind you. His old one, his father's, had long been sent off on a different, new journey with his brother. Lost to time, lost somewhere else, he didn't know and as much as what was left of the rags in his chest keeping him alive tugged him into _wishing,_ he couldn't follow through. That life was gone, long over, and there was no point dragging after the man he worked so, so hard to give another life to. To give _his life_ to. And yet, here he was, still very much alive in body but perhaps, not in spirit.

Arthur Callahan, Tacitus Kilgore, Fenton, Cowpoke, _Black Lung-_ they'd all died up on that mountain, when Dutch had looked at him with all the agony in the world and _left him.  
_  
All that was left now was Arthur Morgan. Just him. Old, tired, ugly, living far longer than what he deserved to be. 

Charles had seemed to think otherwise. Dragged his sorry, fool ass across the mountainside, through pine trees and dirt, cliffside rocks and moss, insistent on keeping him breathing despite the _fire_ in his lungs, the bruises covering his body, the blood a crimson  _d r i p . . ._

Kept him alive, and as much as Arthur knew he didn't deserve it, he was thankful. Grateful beyond words to the man who hovered in his vision above him, familiar eyes and hair a shielding stream over them both, beckoning him into wakefulness from where they'd stopped beneath the shady boughs of the woods by the stream near their little homestead. For a moment, he is so struck with the wish that a different pair of dark eyes were looking down at him, that he is briefly winded into his breath catching, fumbling to clear the bile at the back of his tongue with rasping grumbles. Lived together, they did. After all, Arthur was far too weak, far too _scarred,_ to properly return to existing without some kind of assistance. Could get into coughing fits that lasted forever just from moving too much firewood at a time- sometimes, the smokey fumes of the pitfire were enough to send him wheezing. In the colder months, Charles damn near had to chain him to his bed to keep him from spending too much time outside- how easy it was for him to catch chronic chest infections, wracking his body with painful coughs, everyone one striking fear in both of their hearts for the day the spittle comes out bloodied. It never did, and yet, the _fear_ remained. It had been three years and yet, the road to recovery was a road of hardships just as agonizing as the illness itself. But he fought.

Didn't know how to do anything else. With Charles guiding him, protecting him, _staying with him,_ well, part of Arthur felt that if he didn't owe it to himself, he damn well did to that man. Owed it to him to _try._ To _work, every day,_ despite the mental and physical scars that littered his body, his soul. 

And, maybe, just maybe, he was allowed to have the simple wish for himself of existence. Something he had worked so hard to achieve.

 

" It's getting late, time to go back. "

 

The sound of the other's voice was steady, gentle as a sun-warmed river, and it filled some parts of the pain in his heart, the rips left in his lungs. Enough the shepherding tone amused him- it had long been since Arthur had considered his friend's assistance to be a burden. He wasn't stupid, he understood that his body, his breathing, may never be the same again. So when work-worn hands place themselves at his thinner spine to help him get up, he doesn't shrug them away. Welcomes them, instead. It had been so long, so long, since someone had touched him with any kind of respect, with a genuine honesty, with _friendship._

 

_you are all my family now._

 

Really?

 

" Yeah, 'm up, 'm up. "

 

It doesn't take him as long as it used to, to get up from the ground without wheezing, able to mount his own horse without assistance, without feeling winded from the simplest of movements. It is a simple ride back, something calm and soothing, and it is as much of a vacation as he would ever get considering the life he's lived. It is as much of "relaxation" he was ever going to get- working on their modest little stead, with their chicken coop and gaggle of ducks, their beautiful horses- all of which were rescued from the claws of a cougar or a bear, healed from gunshot wounds and arrowheads, brought back from starvation and disease on the open plains. It felt fitting, for the two of them, to save animals that needed saving.

Helped both of them feel _right_ in their own skins. Lord knows they both needed it, in their own ways.

Sometimes, when Arthur looks into the faces of the creatures he saved, he saw a different face entirely. Saw different eyes, different mouths, heard the gurgles of pain morph into cries of agony, of pain, of _familiarity-_

 

_you're undermining us all... just when it matters the most!_

 

_I didn't._

_ I didn't. _

_ **I didn't.** _

 

...  
" Arthur? Are you okay? "

 

There is a note of concern in Charles' voice over dinner, staring at him across the worn-wood table, piercing gaze encouraging- lacking judgement. Lacking pressure. Lacking _demands._ Wasn't like the deluge of questions, questions, _questions_ he had to listen to, all the time, all the time-

 

_why are you doing all this stuff behind dutch's back, arthur?_

_"_ Yeah, yeah, 'm fine. Just... thinking. "

 

A stretch of silence, allows the broad-shouldered man in front of him to carefully collect his thoughts in that honest, dedicated way he did- allowed Arthur time to ruminate, to _decide,_ on his own next choice of words to the question he knows is coming-

 

" Anything interesting? "

_why?_

 

It spews a quiet chuckle from the cowboy's lips, rasping and low, and he comforts in the fact he no longer feels pain in the simple joy of being allowed to _laugh._ Three years ago, it had felt like stabbing a hot-iron nail into his chest, and now... Arthur had never thought of how something so beautifully plain such as _laughter_ was so taken for granted. The sound of it seems to please Charles as well, something soft hovering around his eyes in the candlelight lampglow, a small smile gracing the curve of his lips to hear his dear friend sounding _familiar again._ Watches closely as the stag settled back in his chair, shaking his head in that dispelling way of his, hand slapping against the bone of his knee like somehow that was answer enough,

 

" Interesting? Sure. Nice? Not so much. "

 

The blackness twinkles with knowledge, with  _understanding,_ and it hits Arthur in the chest with the wish, the _wish, again,_ that it was Charles and _someone else_ in front of him. Someone with eyes just as dark- there were hazeled flecks around the edges in the chocolate pitch, he knew, he'd studied them so many times before in an effort to get the likeness down to paper. Someone with hair just as black, but much shorter, falling in strands to frame the bone structure of the cheeks, tied up in the back in a tidy tail. Familiar mustache, shaved without a single hair out of place, scar curving across the length of the throat. They both thought of their old family, of the people that they'd known, of the lives they'd lived that had ended up with them here, alone and remote just as they both wanted. Had had many a fireside chatter about it, deep and thoughtful and lord how they leaned on one another, clinging to the fact they would always, _always_ have one another's backs. And perhaps that's why Arthur continues on, keeps _speaking,_ tongue stumbling with his words in that halting way of his- as much of an artist as he was, he'd never really gotten the hang of _words-  
_  
_No._ That was all Dutch and Hosea. Not him.

 

" Had a dream, thinkin' about that time when I got John out. "

 

A soft hum echoed across the table from him- yes, it was a conversation they'd had at length, a retelling of the story when Arthur was strong enough- in his _heart-_ to find it in himself to be able to talk about it. To muddle through the lingering pain, the fear that hung off the memories, the desperation in which he wished he could _forget it,_ and yet just as equally desperate to _hold on_ to it. He hated his trauma as much as he needed it, needed to be reminded of it, for it was a lesson he could never afford to forget, not for a second. So he'd told Charles, every detail he could muster in the bogged-down, medicine-hazed fog that was his thought process for months of rehabilitation and doctor office visits and pills and liquids, told him everything.

  


" Thought about... how easily Dutch moved to face us. I'd never been on the end of his pistol, you know. Been at the barrel of many, but never his. Never Bill's. And... "

 

He shifts, falls quiet again, and Charles lets him. Gives him the mental space he needs to sort it all out, piece-by-piece, like he needs to should everything fall out of place again. No need to rush. Not anymore.

 

" _Javier._ Everyone bared their guns, even he, and yet... he raised it towards the sky. Like somehow, a bullet straight up would change our fate. Our end. I'm not a religious man, you know, but I imagined... someone was lookin' down, then. Daring him to do it. He didn't. "

 

No, he didn't. But Arthur would never forget the look on that man's face when he'd stumbled up from the side of the cliff, spilling leaves off his pretty, polished gold-toed boots, warning on his lips. Fell into the scene just as Micah's gun went off, ripping Mrs. Grimshaw to shreds- the look, the _look-_

Yes, Javier had stood and watched. But in the single moment she fell, Arthur could see it. The horror rising in the dark like a black tide, eyes as wide as he'd ever seen them be, bloodshot and spooked like a startled horse. Confused, _confused,_ wild stare upon the shuffle of Dutch's black feathers when he brandished his pistols- turned them upon his sons, his _sons._ A broken realization in the crease of his cut brows beneath his impeccable hat, searching, _searching._ Looking for an answer somewhere, anywhere, and finding nothing and floundering all the more for it. What had Arthur expected? 

 

_bill, javier, think, think for yourselves!_

 

He was begging, _begging-_

_Please, Javier-_

I saw it. You looked so scared. I wanted to explain, I _tried to._ But you wouldn't listen, Dutch had padded cotton into your ears, an infection far worse than the one that'd been in my lungs. Rotted you from the inside out- but I _hoped._ I _wished._ As stupid as it was, I did. Because you never truly, completely believed in it, did you?

 

_i know dutch's been a little erratic recently-_

 

_Please. Please._

 

_we're still here, he's still right-_

 

No, Javier. You're not thinking _clearly._

 

_arthur, you okay?_

 

Now that you're here, now that I know you're safe. You let me lean on you, did you notice? I hung on to you like a lifeline-

 

_get outta here, there's a lot of 'em!_

 

Oh, Javier, _Javier,_ I didn't want to leave you. I had to, _I had to,_ but it was so painful to watch you bleed out on foreign sand. I wasn't going to rest until we'd gotten you back, no way in hell. Any way to get to you was viable, was a route I would take, just for you-

 

_we're all acting crazy, and that... that's not what i thought we were gonna be doing here._

 

Yes, _yes._ We have been, utterly and absolutely ridiculous. So why do you stay? Why do you continue to follow him? Why won't you _stay with me?_

  
 _feels like we're running, running... killing, and running some more._

_javier, i need you strong-_

 

Of course, Dutch. You need everyone strong, everyone _else_ strong, so you can sit up in your tent all day making "plans". Make me out to be the errand boy. Make the rest of the camp do your dirty work for you. To pave the way for you with velvet-red carpet and golden roads so you can come in and make your  _grand, grand entrance._ Just like _always._

 

_okay._

_not okay. yes or no, strong or weak._

_... strong._

 

He's not a fucking _child, Dutch._ Not some dog you can order around. Not like some pet, like how you've treated me for years and _years._ He isn't that, so why? Why do you threaten him on the shoreline, staring at him like you're his _daddy._ Why do you pad after John, forcing him into consenting before your eyes to fulfill your sick ideologies, to comfort  _yourself_ that you have everyone's _trust._ No, no, you didn't have anyone's _trust._ That's not what you were looking for. You were looking for _submission._ For _blind, unquestioning loyalty._

 

" You've come a long way since then. We both have. "

 

Yes, he had.

  


The timbre of Charles' voice is soothing beyond belief, coaxing his hackles into lying flat again, gently settling his frayed nerves and anxieties. A constant steadiness beneath his feet, always ready to catch him should he fall. He had yet to, but had come close many a time before, as had the huntsman. They depended on each other, but not in the way Dutch had accumulated a mass following to lean on, to force into gaining his own leisure in life, his own selfish desires laid bare and open. No, this was strong and true and Arthur had never thought he'd ever truly feel something like it, but now that he had, he found it quite simple and quite wonderful.

All in all, he was beyond grateful that Charles was still here with him. Mentioned no inkling of leaving him, no inclination to pack up and make his own life somewhere else. Content to remain _together._

But still, Arthur was haunted. Haunted by the shadows on the wall when they retired to their respective beds, house just big enough to have ones of their own. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had his own room, just to himself. Part of it was comfortingly lonesome, allowed him space to _breathe_ in more ways than one. In ways he'd never had when he was camping with the gang in a lean-to, a creaky cot and old mattress and pillow beaten to hell. But sometimes, it was terrible. The ghosts that formed in the corners of his room, keeping him awake far longer than his hacking coughs and fevers and hot-cold flashes had ever done when he'd been sufficiently sick.

These _lingered_. These didn't subside after a few minutes of pain. They remained, cobwebs in his brain and in his vision, and no matter how much he swatted at them, he couldn't dispel them to the air. Even with Charles here, they wouldn't _leave_.

How many nights had he envisioned Javier in the corner chair? Settled there with his white button-down he always wore, sleek-silk black vest thrown tasteful and well-worn, knotted buttons delicate and impeccable. Sometimes with his blue jacket, never with a cut or loose, frayed thread, and sometimes without and his shirt rolled up his arms, nestled into the crooks of his elbows. His boots, _his boots_ , they glint in the moonlight streaming through the curtains, gold struck silver and beautiful, always _so shiny_ , as shiny as his carefully-cared for knife that he always carried around. Just like his pistols, engraved on the sides with beautiful etchings of flowers and skulls up the handle, along the barrel- he'd gotten a good look when they'd chased the bounty hunters up the ravine to rescue Sean.

Arthur had watched him choke a man to death on the pebbles and, for a brief, fleeting moment, had imagined himself as the one pressed down into the ground in a _very_ _different scenario._

He couldn't escape those dark, dark eyes in the corner, peering out from the weathered, haggard, handsome face, staring him down where he lay in his bed. Black holes, unrelenting and hard, and yet when the light shifted outside, the cowboy could just see the white glinting like pearled diamonds in a shiny film. Wondered if Javier had ever cried about what had happened- lord knows he had, as embarrassing and vulnerable as it felt to admit it. _He had-_

 

" What do you _want from me?_ "

 

He asks the open air, a quiet whisper. The figure doesn't move, blackened hair falling in an impeccable, well-groomed frame across the high cheekbones he'd sketched so many times before. It didn't move, and Arthur contented himself in that if Javier wished to watch him so badly, he could- because the cowboy wasn't a good vision, anyway. A poor showing. Wasting his time, the ghost was! Staying here, watching over him as he fell into sleep, deep and restful these days considering his lack of cough waking him up in the middle of the night, considering he no longer had to be prepared to die at a moment's notice. Yeah, he didn't fucking _live his life_ for anyone else now but himself (and Charles, of course). It was just his now, all his, and he allowed himself to be greedy with it.

He deserved that much.

 

...  
" Let's get goin', Charles. The chickens ain't gonna fly away without you here to watch them. "

 

It is said in all-affection, all-amusement, because it was true. Those damned feathered bipeds loved to follow the huntsman around the homestead unless he locked them sufficiently in their pen. He looked like a mother hen! And boy, did he spoil the squawking creatures, always brushing off Arthur's various, gentle jabs and jokes about it with a glint in his eye that spoke of gentleness, of _fondness._

 

" Hmph, I'm honored they like me so much. "

 

It's familiar. It's _easy._ They saddle up quick, food packed for a few days at the least, homestead cleaned and trapped and armed as well as they could to deter any whipper-snappers from trying any tricks- you know, just like how they had been, once. They had a long ride ahead- all the way down to the desert, dusty country of New Austin. How long had it been since they'd last crossed it? Years and years, at this point. Long before the failed Blackwater heist, the gunshots and blood and bullet-casing coming down like rain- Charles' burnt hand, Boudicea crashing to the ground in the escape as her leg bones broke with the stress and pressure, a bullet wound ricocheting off her knee. Before they'd been bared from every crossing the river should Blackwater officials or the Pinkertons catch them and lay noose around each and everyone one of the gang. A long time, so very long ago, that the memory feels hazy around the edges.

Tumbleweed was their target after seeing a telegram about a starving, wounded racehorse picked up from the cactus-filled ravine she'd fallen into, killing her rider on impact and yet remaining alive herself. Off to retrieve her, they were, and take her back to their homestead nestled beyond the mountains. A long journey, but a worthwhile one.

Terribly... _achingly l o n g._

It took days, just as they'd planned. Sunlight and moonlight dragged along over their backs, sweat-slick and tired and hot no matter the weather- that was just the way of the sand! Sand Arthur didn't miss, not in the slightest. It prickled all over his body, got into his boots no matter how high they settled on his knee, and the two men grumbled quietly about their predicaments. But, alas, they continued onwards. Why would they not? The horse needed help, just as much as they'd had. That they still needed, in their own ways. It was what kept them going along rocky cliffside, through dry creekbeds and cactus-studded hills, through brush and weeds, all the damn way across the state. But they made it, rolling into town and looking so incredibly out-of-place with their rancher's clothing of simple cloth and dusters compared to the black-saddled, grim, studded faces they passed.

But Arthur and Charles had certain looks of their own, for sure. A lifetime of being _outlaws_ , and it showed- kept everyone away from them, though curious glares they received-

Especially when the kicked-up dust began to burn in the cowboy's lungs, tickling his nose and rasping over his tongue, filling it with dry sandpaper and a thick layer of smoke. Rattled down his throat, into his chest, and he felt it like cobwebs _shivering_ in his ribs, thin and pressed tight when he heaved to take breaths and could hardly get any air in. Choked on it, stumbling into a cough when they hitched up outside the stable- helped down by Charles, broad and strong hands holding his leaner frame close. _Steadying._ Soothing words in his ear as he coughed on nothing, hacking terribly, wheezing desperate in his chest as he gasped for any kind of proper air. Barely felt it when Charles lifted his own shirt over Arthur's nose and mouth, letting him breathe in the pine-scent and mild dampness of the sweated cloth, moisture and something other than pure smoke filtering into his lungs.

 

" Easy, Arthur, easy. "

 

The said man simply waved with his hat, dismissive and dispelling. Waited for his own breathing to slow down, to recover bits of himself, before pulling back- pleased when he didn't collapse into another fit this time-

 

" 'M good, 'm fine. I'm just gonna... get myself a swig at the saloon. Meet ya' back out here. "

 

Charles hesitated where they sat on the steps outside of the general store, muscled arms curled protective and soothing around the bulk of his body. And yet, when Arthur waved him off again, he regretfully removed his presence and wandered off down the wood, pointing an accusing fingertip back at the man he left settled there,

 

" Take it easy, cowboy. Don't go pressing yourself too far. "

 

Arthur managed a _smile,_ coughing an amused hum into the air,

 

" Uh-huh, I got it. "

 

Waited for his dear friend to disappear from his sight before he deigned himself steady enough to move on his own, groaning into a stand and holding a sweat-slicked palm over his maw, desperate to keep some kind of artificial moisture in his lungs because lord knows he could hardly make any himself even on a good day. Not with the scars as they were, rehabilitated and faded as they could be nowadays. Managed to amble his way into the saloon, a small and unremarkable place- exactly how he wanted it to be. They weren't here for pleasantries, weren't here for information or to sniff out any new leads. _Not anymore._ Hopefully, _never_ again, if he could have his way. And nowadays, he found he was living for himself more than he'd ever had before, and it was pleasant and strengthening and what he deserved to have. What Charles reminded him that he was entitled to- a _life._

And a whiskey.

He didn't drink very much anymore, found it upset him more often than not with his wrecked, scarred body. But this was allowed, just this, when he ordered a shot off the very small, fearful-looking bartender, who cast him a nervous look before stuttering off to get his drink. And Arthur took the time to look around- instinctive, a hound always prepared for anything. Because he _had to be._ Ready to flee, to fight, at a moment's notice. Scoped possible exits, possible bottles to be used as weapons, studying the integrity of the weak-wooded chairs in the room. Not much around, nothing easy to use as a weapon, which was both a hindrance and a _lucky break_ for him. Usually, a night out on the bar ended in bloodied knuckles and glass shards in the knuckles.

 

_i dread to think about it._

 

The voice, the _voice,_ swelled up at the back of his skull when he thought of that night in Valentine so long ago. Dragged beneath the red-haze that was adrenaline and spite, hands breaking against faces he could no longer remember, and no longer cared to try. No, what he remembered most was Javier, _Javier-_

 

_c'mere, you little greaser-_

 

Helpless, frozen in place, when a well-placed punch threw the man into the bar, flank crushed off the edge of the wood as _Tommy_ kept coming, dragging Javier by the back of his neck into the nearby table. And Arthur could do nothing, _nothing,_ as he listened to the sickening _crack_ of the musician's face against the wood, slammed again and again and _again._ Desperate, _desperate-_

 _Fuck, Javier-_ I'm _coming,_ don't worry-

Could hardly hear over the rush of blood in his ears when he shattered the nose of the man who'd held him captive in the middle of the room, turning with a roar and a rush. Knuckles slamming into the man's neck and stomach as he reared up, a bear and a stag crashing together in a fierce battle of will where neither wished to back down, neither wished to _lose._ Could just see Javier stumbling off to the side, falling into the corner and grasping at his own face, blood pouring over his bruised knuckles and through his fingers. The last thing he saw before Arthur was being thrown from the window, shattering through the glass and dumped into the mud-

 

_you need a hand, arthur?_

 

Oh, _Javier,_ you idiot. How were you supposed to help me with bruises like that? _Stay away._ Just... stay safe. _Stay safe.  
_  
That's all I ask.

All I want-

_No-_

_No fucking way-_

_He can't breathe, **he can't breathe** -_

Can't believe his own eyes when he squints into the corner to study the figure slumped in the seat, back pressed to the wood, looking dark and unwelcoming. He knows those shoulders, _he knows that posture,_ he knows that blackened sombrero and dark vest-duster. Knows the cloth, knows those hands wrapped around a beer bottle, idle and rubbing slow circles into the faded, pressed labeling. Can hardly hear the voice of the bartender when he delicately placed his glass on the bar, a clink so loud he feels it echo in his head, now suddenly empty, _empty, empty-_

He is damn sure his heart has stopped beating, still and dead in his chest, when the man tilts his head with a familiar neck-roll, palm coming to rub into the juncture of his throat, and it just barely betrays a mouth he knows, _a mustache he knows, cheekbones he knows-_

Arthur is choking on air, desperate to stop his hands from shaking when he turns slow, _slow,_ like a poised predator towards his drink. Stares at the slick, amber liquid with a wildness pumping into his veins, feeling the throbs of his fingertips around the cool glass, eye following the drip of condensation along the side. Downs it in one go, feeling the warmth pool in his stomach, bubbling at the back of his throat, uncomfortable and yet wholly pleasant in the end. It isn't the main reason he moves the way he does, but the burn certainly sets his furnace alight a bit more than usual. Powers his legs across the saloon, boots creaking against the wood-

Clenches his fist as hard as he can, feels the glass _crack_ beneath the weight of his power and part of him feels sick with pleasure in the fact _he still has it_ -

Pulls his arm back and throws it as hard as he can against the table in front of him, shards shattering everywhere, spraying across his own waist, skittering into Javier's lap. A chorus of soft, gasping noises echo around them from the sparse crowd of other patrons in the saloon, startled by his outburst. Clearly unused to displays of violence, considering how they all seem to tip-toe from the room and flee before Arthur can get his eyes on them. Not that he would anyway, not when the sombrero tips back with a start and dark, _dark eyes_ look up at him, lips parted as though to say something. _Freezes. _They're both stuck, hovering in time, as their gazes meet and neither finds they can look away. So many emotions, fast and wild like a tide pool of white-water rapids, swim like a tempest in Javier's visage, brows furrowed in surprise, in _confusion._ Arthur can only imagine what kind of face he himself is pulling- assumes its one so very similar to the man in front of him. The silence is _deafening,_ broken only by their breaths whispering in the sun streaming from the shuddered windows, spraying dust particles between them. Finds his voice, _finds it,_

 

" You're a real goddamn son of a _bitch_ , Javier _._ "

_can i talk to you?_

 

It seems to break the spell between them, Javier blinking sharp like he was waking from a dream, before his visage lowers into a vicious _glare,_ only the two of them left in the saloon. Growls through his teeth, low and mumbling,

 

" Sure, _Arthur._ "

 

_i don't have much to say to you right now._

 

The condescending airiness boils under his skin, raises his hackles sky-high, and his fist white-knuckle at his flanks, ripping into the seams of his own jeans. Tendons and ligaments _crack,_ _crack, crack,_ as he clenches and unclenches his fingers, testing the strength of them. Waits, _waits,_ for Javier to lift his beer to his lips again, nonchalant and dark and _avoiding his gaze-_

Moves in a wild whirlwind across the table, tackling into the man across from him and dragging him straight to the floor. The resounding crack of the musician's head hitting the wood rang painfully familiar in Arthur's ears, just over the sound of his own blood rushing, the way his heartbeat jerked into motion again. Beat, _beat, beat,_ against his ribs that had been feeble and brittle the last time he'd seen the man he now clambered atop, punches wailing into the body beneath him. Hardly flinches when claws and knuckles come right back at him, a wild scramble across the dusty rotten wood as they crashed again and again, relishing in the breaking of the dam, the explosions of _emotions-_

Snaps and growls, grabbing at anything they could- a knuckle against Arthur's cheekbone, bursting against his jaw, fingers ripping out strands of Javier's hair, fists thumping solid and hard and shattering against his shoulders. There is nothing but them, _animals,_ ripping and tearing at one another-

Fuck- Arthur feels it when one of Javier's punches hits him right in the flank, jerking against his ribs, pushing against his weakened diaphragm and he's _downed-_ rolled to the side as the man who had once been his _brother_ straddled him. Hips kept his down, pressed beneath the other's entire body weight as hands, _familiar hands,_ wrapped around his throat. Tightening, _tightening,_ and the cowboy remembers the day on the pebblebed. Watching him kill that bounty hunter with nothing but the pressure of his _fingers,_ tearing into cartilage and ligament, crushing it beneath his strength. And, now, here Arthur was, just as trapped but _worse-_

The dust had begun to settle, _settle,_ and every short burst of air he tried to gasp in simply came dry and painful, rattling in his chest, layering across the organs, deep into his lungs. It was choking, _choking, far more_ than the muscled laden into the arteries and veins in his neck, and his chest began to heave, _heave._ Flailing and thrashing, he tried with all the rest of the strength he had to dislodge the body on him, hands winding around wrists and _pulling, pulling-_ to no avail. The pressure just kept coming and he just kept coughing, _coughing,_ wheezing something horrible and pulled-taunt and he can hardly see Javier's face in front of his anymore. Not when the world began to throb, _throb, throb,_ all over again, in pulses of sickly yellow glare from the sunlight filtering over them like some poetic, picturesque painting. Wondered, so briefly, what it would be like to see them from someone else's eyes and _draw it,_ sketch the lines of pain and betrayal and _fear-_

_He can't breathe -_

Maybe it was because his legs had begun to thump like a startled rabbit, muscles twisting and shifting in that furious flurry of a way that a captured prey animal did to escape, _escape._ Maybe it was because he was no longer fighting back, every movement desperate to get the other to _let go_ so he could try, _try_ to suck air in. Maybe it was the pure _panic_ in his expression as his vision crackled at the edges with black and red like the veins of a splattered heart, pulsing as painful as every cough and choke wracked his body.

Or maybe it was just them. _Arthur and Javier._

Whatever it was that the revolutionary saw, it caused him to let go. To fall off to the side, fingers unclenching from fists and laden into the cowboy's shoulders, rolling him to side as he coughed and _coughed and coughed,_ spittle dripping from a mouth he couldn't get to _close-_

 

" Arthur, _Arthur, hey._ Relax, relax, _breathe_. It's okay- it's okay, I'm here- "

_i guess i'll leave you to it, then._

 

Arthur's fist slammed against the wood, again and again, like somehow that would help, and something sounding like _I'm trying to_ gasped from his mouth. His gaze swims as strong arms wrap around the bulk of his back, propping him up, _up,_ until his shoulders rested on Javier's bent knee, half-crouched on the ground. Fingers were steady at the sensitive, vulnerable skin at the back of his neck beneath the ridge of his skull, kept him _up, awake-_

_Stay awake, stay awake, don't fall into the black, not again-_

_Please not again._

 

" _Arthur, please,_ I'm... I'm _sorry._ I didn't- I didn't mean to- "

_sure, arthur._

 

Sees orange, _orange,_ tied familiar and silken around Javier's throat, just high enough to hide the long slash of a knife that had been dug so long ago into his throat. Manages to configure his fingers into reaching for it, _reaching,_ and damn near rips it off the man, fumbling, _desperate._ Pulls it like a mask over his own face, just like Charles had done for him, and the familiar, _familiar scent_ of foreign cigarette smoke and alcohol and _fruit_ that filled his lungs now was almost as painful as the straight sawdust he'd been bringing in moments before. But he is grateful for it, that his lungs had begun to  _shudder_ with hiccups and yet, he could _breathe again._ A slow, aching process of being brought back to himself, into convincing his shivering throat into swallowing ginger saliva down, soothing the burns. Time seemed to slow back down into a sluggish beat, like it didn't even exist at all, as the panic and _terror_ subsided into something more _put together._ Something more like Arthur Morgan.

And yet, he didn't move. Couldn't. Not when Javier was cooing soft words against his forehead where, in the midst of all the racket, he'd pressed and held his lips against the sweat-dripping brow. Not when Javier's fingers were rubbing soothing circles against the top notch of his spine, rolling over the muscles between his shoulder blades where they rested against the man's thigh, soothing his lungs into working again. Not when a pair of fingers had wrapped around Arthur's wrist where it had pressed the orange bandana against his maw, thumb rubbing soft and sweet into the rabbiting pulse pressed beneath the fragile skin. Not with Javier _holding him._ Not with Javier _here, finally, again-_

When Arthur looks through the haze of welled tears in his eyes, he feels his heart _chill_ in his chest at what he _sees-_

Javier looked an utter mess, even before Arthur had ripped into him. The sunlight dappling across them had run traceable rivulets against the man's weathered face, lighting up his left eye- yes, chocolate and hazel, just as he'd remembered them to be. The dark hair that had once been so well-kept was cut short and messy, clumped together and ruffled like someone with fingers that no longer cared had run a knife through it, like they'd been desperate to get _rid of something._ Stubble had grown into the length of his jaw in patchy sloppiness, hardly cared after any longer. Blackened, purpled bags lay heavy in-laden beneath the eyes that were staring, _staring_ down at him, looking exhausted and haggard and like he hadn't slept in years. If he was anything like Arthur, then he hadn't been having a good night's sleep in even longer than that. His clothes were a rumpled unkept even before the cowboy's fingers had laid into him, some buttons missing, shirt creased and wrinkled, like they were nothing but clothes and that's all they were. Not something of a _gift,_ like Javier had mentioned once during his story-

 

_he took me in, clothed me, fed me._

 

Yeah. He had. That's what Dutch had done to them all.

 

" ... Do you remember... the last thing you said to me? "

 

_Do you?_

The question rings like a drop of a stone in a still, quiet well, pouring ripples against the cobblestones and lapping at the sides. Echoing, _echoing,_ in the empty saloon. Rose over the sounds of their blood rushing and hearts pumping, singular and simple and _present._ His eyes search, _search,_ the face slowly coming into focus once more above his. Sees the _terror_ painted across Javier's face, looking down at him like Arthur was broken glass in his hands that he was desperately trying to put back together again. The _fear, tangible,_ in those dark eyes wide and bloodshot like they'd been so many years ago on the ridge of Beaver Hollow, confused and _pained._ Like every one of Arthur's cough had struck him twice as painful, chest _heaving_ with shivering, shuddery, short breaths like he'd just run a marathon alongside a train. 

It _hurt,_ when Javier's voice sounded like it'd been taken away by the wind, murmuring broken and quiet,

 

" I thought you were dying. "

 

It rustled some sad, pitiful rumble of a laugh in Arthur's chest, clearing his throat raggedly and trying _not to focus_ on the way the fingers against his neck _tightened_ in fear that it was going to stumble into another hacking fit again. Speaks around the orange against his lips, imagines its skin instead,

 

" I... already died. Long time ago. Jus' me, now. Jus' Arthur Morgan. "

_he's going to kill us all, i see that now.  
_

 

Why didn't _you?_

  


Blue eyes search, search for him, and they lock terribly painful. The hand that'd been wrapped around his wrist wandered now, calloused fingers slipping into the stubble of his cheek, rasping like Arthur's skin was liable to break apart with a touch even the slightest too rough. Cupped his cheekbone where a bruise was beginning to form, gently fondling the sensitivity, and Javier's expression broke in pain, everything written out across his face-

And Arthur, for a brief moment, found such terrible, _vile_ pleasure in seeing that Javier looked _just as haunted and hunted as he did,_

 

" ... Just worry about that cough. "

_just worry about that cough, arthur._

 

Yes. That was it.

Arthur's laugh is a horrible thing, rasping and crackling like fire-embers spitting off one of the many, many fires the two had settled before, shoulder-to-shoulder. When Javier was playing guitar, when he was singing, when he was telling soulful and saddened stories of the home he missed that he would never be able to go back to again. When he was attempting to convince Bill and Uncle that Dutch _did things for love,_ because he _loved them all._ When he was arguing with John over a polished boot, spitting at him like he was the _rat-_ when he attacked Uncle for sleeping too close to him, rounded on Abigail like she was a heathen for wanting her _son_ to stay alive, to be _safe._ When Arthur had tried to speak to him, time and time again, in the darkness with nothing but the familiar vermillion-red glow across their faces, and was turned away every time-

 

_what, don't want to sit next to me anymore, arthur?_

 

I do, _I did, I wanted to-_

You kept pushing me away. Again and again and _again,_ and I was such a fool that I kept following. Kept coming back. Just like how I'd kept coming back to Eliza and Isaac. Kept bending to Mary's will. Kept carrying out Dutch's bloodletting orders. Kept watching my friends and family _die._

 

" As you can see... didn't do a very good job of that, did I? "

 

Javier flinches like the words branded a burn into every inch of skin, shuddering deep down to the bones in a way that Arthur can feel in the muscles pressed up against his. Watches as the musician, his _brother, his friend,_ looked down at him with eyes much wetter than he remembered them being, and watched him shake his head. Felt thumbs curl against the thin, fragile skin beneath his eyes- felt some kind of liquid against his own cheeks- _was he crying?_

Did Javier ever cry for them?

  
He got his answer.

They both were, crystalline droplets dragging down their cheeks, faster and leaking faster than their sweat-broken skin. It hurts something terrible to see Javier, messy and dusty and crying like the day he'd shown up on the back of Dutch's horse, clothed in rags and nothing but skin and bones. _Starving_ from neglect, alone and forgotten. He looked like that now, looked _worse- without hope-_ and it just made Arthur's laugh crackle into a quiet sob. What were they doing? _What were they doing?_ When Javier leaned down towards him, cradling his head gentle in his palms, and pressed lips against his. When he felt their tears mingle, chapped warmth still together when their eyes opened slick and thickened with crystals, the closest their eyes had ever been to one another. Watched the droplets dance like jewels off each other's eyelashes, fell into it when they slipped closed and shifted _together._ Arthur let those fingers tilt his skull up, let Javier press _deeper,_ where they lay intertwined and kissing like this was a goodbye. Like this was the last time they'd ever see eachother.

_Please don't leave me again._

_Please don't turn me away._

_Stand with me this time, not him._

_He was using you, using us, he was- he was-_

 

" I know, Arthur, I know, _shh..._ I'm not... I'm not going anywhere. I have nowhere to go! "

 

It's said with a flourishing, wet laugh, like it was all some big joke. Smiling through his tears, red-rimmed eyes never leaving Arthur's beneath his, as he came back and pressed their faces together. Mingled together, kiss after kiss, pull after pull, until the rivers had stopped and they were both able to breathe again. _Both of them._ Until the air in their lungs was shared, _paired,_ one pair of lungs working hard enough for them both, one heart beating enough for them both. _Together._ And Arthur can hardly get his fingers to unlatch themselves from Javier's duster as they both struggle to get him to a stand, leaning to the side as he waited for the swimming in his vision to dissipate. To be able to feel his own feet on the ground without assistance, oxygen flooding heady and welcome back into his senses.

Looks at Javier through sore eyes,

 

" Charles is here, with me. Live up north now. Come with me. "

 

As much as Arthur Morgan spoke in a way that allowed no argument, no _denial,_ there is a hanging note of fresh, wounded _pleading_ in his tone. Desperate, _desperate,_ for Javier to _stay. Stay with him, this time._ To not disappear into the treeline for three goddamn years- leaving him and John to be chased up the mountainside by Dutch and Micah and the Pinkertons. He found it funny, so _funny,_ that that was the moment Javier had decided he'd had enough- when he saw that his black-winged savior was going to hunt down his own son, the man he'd raised for twenty years. That's when he'd turned tail and _left-_ Arthur's last vision of him was of his fleeing back into the sunlight on Boaz, stumbling down the hillside and vanishing and leaving the rest of them to the _wolves._

 

" Okay. "

 

It feels like hours had passed when they both stumbled out of the saloon into the dust-laden town of Tumbleweed, winking against the beating, heavy sunlight and the lash of the dry wind throwing piles of sand into their eyes at every twist. And Arthur realized that it was still Javier's bandana he was holding when silk brushed his lips on instinct, rising to fend off the sandpaper from filtering into his lungs again. Looks, _looks to the man,_ and finds him staring right back with something akin to _softness_ and worry around his visage. He doesn't ask for his cloth back. Hesitate, _hover,_ in space as their eyes meet again, pouring open with fresh wounds and emotion.

It feels like a relief.

 

...  
" He follows you around a lot. "

 

Damn Charles for being so incredibly astute and observant and _knowing._ Watchful, like any good predator, like any good huntsman. Like any good _friend,_ looking out for the back of his dear one who had been hurt so many times. It's true, it is. Ever since they'd gotten back to their little homestead, Javier had taken to trailing after Arthur like a lost puppy, eyes never leaving him as soon as he walked into a room. Became restless when he wasn't around the cowboy for too long- became restless when he _was_ around the cowboy for too long. A tireless tirade of push-and-pull, desperate for some kind of _balance, some sense,_ to all of it. Valiant attempts, but all in vain, futile. There were still walls between them, lines they didn't dare cross yet, and it just made everything _difficult._

 

" Yeah. 'Spose he does. "

 

There is a rough hand that covers his where it rests on his knee from where they've settled on their tiny porch, looking over the rolling meadows and mountains in the distance. Watching Javier chase their chickens around the yard- hadn't padlocked them in well enough, and the feathery creatures had found every opportunity to escape. Well, the two of them let the _coyote_ figure out how to catch them, hands overfilling with fat, clucking dames, and it all looked very amusing overall how flustered the man who used to be impeccable, impenetrable, without a hair out of place, was now covered in straw and grass and feathers and took to gently scolding each of the plump, stupid animals. 

 

" Señoras, _por favor_. Comportarse. "

 

The vision brings a smile, however fought, to Arthur's lips. Feels... _right,_ in some way. That the three of them were here now, living together on the land, and all three seemingly content to remain that way. An unspoken undercurrent of _understanding_ between them all, tying them all together through hearts and minds alike. Had begun when Charles had ran into them coming out of the saloon, hands on his hips and looking like a scolding mother peering down at her son who had brought home the largest, wartiest toad he could find from the swamp and brought it home with the intent of keeping it a _pet._ Had felt Javier stiffen behind him, standing tall, _too stiff,_ like some guard dog that was being alerted to some kind of danger to its owner.

They'd come back together and with the injured horse, and she and Javier seemed far more peas-in-a-pod than expected. Leeched off one another, giving one another strength, until she only behaved when the musician was around to comfort her and soothe her and encourage her across the length of New Austin, all the way back up north as promised. 

It seemed she had chosen him, and who were Arthur and Charles to deny the old gal some kind of happiness in the rest of her life?

 

" He feels something for you. "

 

Perhaps, one day, the comment might've made Arthur's skin prickle with panic and sorrows and _fears._ Instead, it only settled deep in his heart that plodded miserably at the _reminder,_ laughing self-deprecating and aimless. How could Javier feel something for him? How could he _not?_ It was all one confusing, massive _mess_ and the cowboy was too tired, too old now, to scarred, to have the strength to try to unravel all the colorful threads. Instead, he looks to Charles to see a steady face, _knowing eyes,_ and not an inch of fear or pain in the statement.

 

" Like I have for you? And you for me? "

 

That makes the huntsman _smile,_ a roughened thumb rubbing gentle and soothing against Arthur's cheekbone. Leans into the touch, one he had felt very often these past three years together on the homestead, and rumbles a pleased purr when a forehead presses against his own,

 

" Yes. Just like us. "

 

Lord knew that what men did behind closed doors would remain there- _behind closed doors._ Arthur and Charles had done well to keep to that statement, easy-as-breathing, hiding what they had in the open and yet letting it blossom and fill their home with light and flowers when they were there. Remote, alone, _perfect._ Arthur loved Charles, and Charles loved Arthur- in every way. It's what came out of so many years together, so much mutual attraction and affection and _understanding,_ and the two had fallen into bed together willingly more times than Arthur could count now. Always a wonderful, solidifying, _strengthening_ meeting, and it warmed his heart unlike the throbbing pain his coughs had. No, it was softer, gentler, like flickering candlelight and he welcomed it, _always._

 

" Does it bother you? "

 

He could hear that Javier had managed to wrangle all of their chickens back into the coop, grumbling Spanish under his breath as he shuffled back towards the house, lighting a foreign cigarette along the way. Oh, how Arthur _longed_ to press his nose into the scarred neck and _inhale_ that smoke wood scent he knew would be there, the fruit spice and fire pit dust. Felt it pool in his chest, liquid fire and it _hurt,_ just a bit, but in the _good way,_

 

" No, of course not. I know you love him too. I know he loves you. And I... well, you and I both know I've thought of him more than once. And I want you _happy._ You deserve it. We _all_ deserve it, all three of us. Why fight it? Why stay pained and brooding when we can share? "

 

The entirety of Charles' intelligence, how easy it was for him to say it all, made Arthur _laugh,_ true and genuine in his chest-

 

" Oh, Charles, what I wouldn't give to be as smart as you. "

 

Their smiles are warm against one another's as Javier slowly, carefully, padded up the ravine towards them. _Hesitated,_ slightly, at seeing them, but kept on moving. Arthur thought the clean, _casual_ look he had now suited him far better than the crisp-cut shirts, the silken vests, the polished boots. He liked the plain white cotton-striped button-up he wore now, sleeves rolled at the elbow like usual- suspenders black and well-worn, jeans dusted and frayed at some seams, boots dirtied with ranch work and yet loved. Yes, Arthur liked this look a lot better than any of the others. Could hear Charles' amused chuckle low near his ear as the huntsman shifted up, huffing a welcome to Javier and praise for his work before disappearing back into the house.

It was just them now- _Arthur and Javier_. One of the few times they'd been alone together since they'd grappled at the Tumbleweed saloon a month ago. It wasn't... _uncomfortable,_ simply new and tender, ginger like a wound just-healed. Felt calm as the sun set over the horizon, painting red and orange and purple over them as Javier settled his back against the post near Arthur's head. Thigh so close, he could shift his head an inch and be pressed against the warm muscle and skin. _Longed_ to feel it beneath him- remained exactly where he was. _Hesitating._ Watching as Javier puffed slow, methodical smoke rings into the air, each spiraling out of control before it got too far, glinting like gold dust in the air, like a spray of whiskey shot.

Javier looked beautiful like this, all a-glow and more _relaxed_ than the cowboy had seen him in a long time. He'd missed seeing him like this.

Had just missed _him._

 

" Have fun with the chickens? "

 

It's teasing, a lilting rasp of a grumble that had the musician glancing down at him, liquid black catching the entirety of the sunset in the glare and Arthur's breath is taken away by the small _smirk,_ the wry twist of his visage and the huff of breath from his lips,

 

" I love chasing disobedient chickens around. It's the highlight of my day. "

 

It's _easy,_ to laugh together at that, murmuring warmth and kindling between them. So sweet, so _right,_ and Charles' passing words ring between his ears, rattle in his brain. Makes him look down at his fingers, pressing callouses and scars together thoughtfully, before he inhaled sharply and _took the step._ Shuffled up from the well-worn wood beneath him, dusting off his jeans and carefully placing his hat atop his head again, his _crown,_ and doesn't miss the way Javier's eyes languidly roam the entire line of his body as it unravels next to him. Turns briskly, plucking the musician's cigarette from his lips, demanding his gaze- waiting,  _watching,_ as Javier purred the smoke out of his mouth before he _moved.  
_  
_A kiss._ Steady press, warm and welcoming, and Arthur can feel the man's breath stop in his throat at the gesture. Feels delicate fingers curl around his own hanging by his side, pinkies intertwining in a way that is almost _painfully_ intimate. Breathe in, out, _each other,_ as Arthur pulled back and their eyes caught. The glow illuminated them both, words whispered soft and quiet from Javier's lips,

 

" _Eres hermosa_ , Arthur. "

 

The said man simply smiled, something rare and warm-

 

" I've missed you, Javier. "

 

Leaves him standing there on the porch as he wandered back inside to help Charles with their dinner, letting Javier watch his retreating back into the candlelit maw of their homestead. Wonders what _exactly_ he's let loose in the house now, but without fear. There was nothing _to_ be afraid of, not anymore. Not when the three of them were like this, together, working to _heal,_ to _grow._ Reminded Arthur of the flowers he'd sketched so many times in their meadow- reminded him of the various sketches he had of Charles and Javier from the day they'd taken just sitting amongst them, rough, hardened outlaws twining blossoms in one another's hair. 

The ghost returns that night, but this time, it's in his doorframe. Blinks open his eyes to see a familiar form hovering within it, dark eyes staring him down where he lay on his side in bed- careful of his lungs, of course. It had been a long time since it had come to him- since Javier had joined them on the homestead, the cobwebs had seemed to clear, and the specters that once used to prowl Arthur's room had left him alone.

Not tonight.

And part of him rises in _anger_ at that. Why? _Why did it come back?_ There was no reason for it, no reason for it to keep coming to him. Not when the _real thing_ was here now. So _why?_

 _Why_ him?

In a fit of rage, Arthur quite decided he'd had enough. Grasped one of the pillows by his head, throwing it with all of his might across the room- content to know he would watch it pass through the dark figure and dispel it. Until _it didn't._ The plush cotton thudded right off a _solid body_ , wringing a quiet gasp from the owner as it thudded to the floor, leaving Arthur very much confused.  _Embarrassed._ When he realized that it was not the ghost of Javier that had come to him tonight, but the very real, very alive Javier. They're both stuck in space, staring at one another, as Arthur offers lamely,

 

" Sorry. Thought you were a bad guy. "

 

He mumbles a quiet laugh at himself, palm coming to rub at the back of his head, but Javier doesn't laugh. Sways in the doorframe, haunting and slow, and murmurs in the still air of the silent house,

 

" I was. I am. What I did... wasn't good. I should've known better, but I went along with it. "

 

The cowboy watches him as he pads slow, careful, floating across the wooden floor towards him. Watches Javier settle primly and neatly at the very edge of his bed, like being allowed just a tiny corner of space was some great gift, some beautiful treat he wasn't supposed to have. It didn't sit well with Arthur, how his hesitance looked so much like _his own,_ in the way he'd always been. Javier had been the confident one, the self-assured one, the one who always seemed to know his direction in life, unwavering and unfaltering. Arthur was the doubter, the worrier, the anxious one with foolish, artistic thoughts poured out mournfully over his journals, in his drawings. Silence stretches as Javier avoids his gaze, looks down at his hands, picking at the nails-

 

" He was using all of us, Javier. We all went along with it, right till the end, even I did. Weren't nobodies fault, was just the way it turned out, we just shoulda known better that it was going to happen sooner rather than later. We... was family. Loved eachother. Made mistakes. Human... somethin' like that. "

 

Sits up in bed and doesn't miss the way Javier's hands immediately come out, prepared to steady him, as though fearing the man would topple over. Arthur doesn't wave the concern away, doesn't bite or snap- knows the musician hasn't been with them long enough to fully grasp what scars Arthur did and didn't have anymore. Doesn't miss the way he seems to hang off of the stag's words, but without that foolish, naive _reverence_ he'd beheld Dutch in, and Arthur is beyond grateful for that.

He doesn't want to be a savior. He just wanted to be Arthur Morgan.

Just like how he wanted Javier to be no one else but Javier Escuella.

That was all he wanted as he slipped their palms together, holding tight and steadying in those ways Charles always did. Tied them together, threaded fingers, and draw comfort from the fact that neither of them shake at the touch. _Welcome it._ Because they _deserved it,_ just as the huntsman had said. Deserved to do _more_ than marinate in loss and grief and suffering. Deserved to live their lives in _their ways, for themselves,_ and for those who they truly loved and who truly _loved them back._ Like Arthur was for Javier. And Javier for Arthur. Like Charles and Arthur, Javier and Charles. _Wrapped up together,_ and Arthur didn't want it any other way-

 

" _Arthur, I'm sorry._ For everything. I really am. "

 

The sincerity in Javier's voice hurts, but it is a relief to hear, in some way. To know that it's _genuine,_ that it's _true-_ then again, Javier had hardly ever shown himself to be anything _but_ honest. Maybe that's why it had hurt so much to see him sidle behind Dutch that day- because Arthur knew it was _true._ Wasn't a fake, a twist of manipulation, a ploy. He wasn't like _Dutch._ Neither of them were, and for that, Arthur both loved and hated it.

 

" He haunts us both. But... we have a life here now. _You_ have a life here now, with us. If, if you want. Because I want you to stay. I want you to be here. I don't want to lose you again, never again. I _need_ you here. "

 

Goddamnit, he'd never been good with _words,_ but he was _trying._ Trying so hard, _so hard,_ to get Javier to listen to him now, when he hadn't been able to convince him years ago. Now was his chance, the only one he was going to get, and all he could do was lay his heart down, as lame and wounded as it was. To watch as Javier's lips tightened, moonlight glinting in a solid shaft across the side of his face, illuminating the eyes that searched his face with its own kind of _desperation._ Searching, _looking,_ and Arthur realizes that Javier is trying to figure out if he is lying or not. 

God, he really fucked us both over, didn't he?

 

" Please. Please stay. I can't... I don't have the heart or the mind to go through that shit again. I just can't do it, Javier. I'm asking you to stay. I need you to stay here, with me- "

 

What might've turned into a ramble was gently cut off by the press of lips against his, soft pressure. _Welcomed._ As their fingers moved to cup one another's cheeks, stroking bones and eyelids and temples, swaying back and forth in a cocoon of comfort and _acceptance,_ Arthur didn't wish to be anywhere else but _here._ And it would seem Javier had felt the same as they pulled back, their gazes half-lidded and peering, falling into the quiet. Together, they shuffled in Arthur's bed, the musician waiting for the cowboy to settle where he'd been on his side before coming in himself. Presses his smaller figure against Arthur's chest, conforming to his curves and creases, and wraps arms steady and strong around him. Sprays that smoke wood smell into the air with every moment, allowing the stag to burrow his face into his throat, to inhale the fruit spice and _familiarity._ Lets Arthur's lips trace the scar along his throat, lets him rest against the vulnerable, fragile skin of his arteries and veins and cartilage.

 _Trusting,_ as Arthur allowed Javier to curl around him, protective and encompassing. Lets Javier tangle their legs together, trusts that Javier will watch the door for him- to turn one's back on an empty, open doorframe in the life of an outlaw was considered a painful gesture of _belief, of trust,_ even in a space that was familiar, that was their _own._ Lets Javier press a kiss to his forehead, to his head, nestling him under his chin and breathing in eachother. 

 

" Of course I'll stay, _mi rayo de sol._ As long as you want me, I'll be here. I'll never turn my back on you again, never. "

 

It makes Arthur smile, knows that the musician can feel it, and the two settle, _settle,_ as Javier's familiar voice began to float sweet and soft in the air. A familiar song but a different _lilt,_ some parts new, unfamiliar- 

 

_ángel de amor tu pasión entiendo_  
_si lo entiendo, puedo expresarlo._  
_se que me quieres_  
_siento que me has cambiado para mejor._

 

They fall asleep together, warm and safe, and it feels like everything they've ever wanted. And when they wake the next day with sunlight streaming down into the room, it feels like a _home_ for them both. For Arthur to look up into Javier's eyes, where he'd propped himself up on an elbow and was tracing the cowboy's facial structure as he slept, was an immense _relief._ To see that he had _stayed,_ had remained with him, and it brought a gentle smile along his lips that calloused fingers traced with wonder and awe. Words whispered quiet against them as Javier leaned down to kiss him again,

 

" El sol te queda bien. Tengo la suerte de despertarme a tu lado. "

 

 

While confusion laden Arthur's brow at the stream of words he didn't understand, it was swiped away with kisses to his forehead and softly-murmured whispers,

 

" Thank you. I'm lucky to be here with you. I... "

 

 

The words get lodged in the throat, a painful swell, and Arthur understands immediately. Lets his own hands come up to beckon the other into relaxation, into _comforts,_ as he pressed their foreheads together,

 

" I know. Me too. Me too. "

 

He can taste the sunlight on Javier's lips this time, warm and sweet, as sounds of Charles stirring in the kitchen rouse them both into pulling away with lingering looks to stumble their way into breakfast. A day ahead, they had to meet. But they would meet it _together, all three of them,_ and would continue to do so _together._

For what better way to walk the lonely road than with kindred souls of company and love?

**Author's Note:**

> All of the italicized "mini conversations" going on throughout the story are all conversations you can listen in on with Javier and other camp characters! Thought it made things extra painful c:


End file.
